


i'll let you mess me up and indulge

by meshizuru



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Abuse, Blow Jobs, Dangan Ronpa 3: Despair Arc, Frottage, Gun play, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, based off the despair arc ED thank you based god megumi ogata, junko cameo where she just treats him like shit at the end, just because kamukura doesnt say much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meshizuru/pseuds/meshizuru
Summary: “I believe I was born for the sake of meeting you, and thus, had my pathetic life salvaged for the honor of serving you, Kamukura-sama,” he says, his lips curling around the gun as he forms the words, so close to being in his mouth. What vestiges of self-control Komaeda has are minute, and close to crumbling apart to dust that slips through Kamukura’s fingers. “What use is there to kill me, now, if not your own pleasure? We are fighting the same battle, aren’t we? Perhaps our ends are different, but we both work in the name of spreading despair, do we not?”Komaeda Nagito falls in love with the only man who has ever beaten his luck, and he won't let him go so easily. Not without showing his devotion.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 8
Kudos: 149





	i'll let you mess me up and indulge

so lock up, mix up, cut up… key up, sex up, wrap up, I'll let you mess me up and indulge.  
that's it, break up, use up, end up… hook up—because we're connected.

It was a marvel how the sky seemed to darken with the revelation of despair sinking its claws into the world. Komaeda found himself staring at the sight with a sickening smile, despite the blood now drenched on the grounds of Hope’s Peak.

Time has been ambiguous, since his lucky encounter with Enoshima. He can still feel the gentle scratch of her nails against his cheek, coaxing him into a deep, dark pit, while his eyes burn from the sight played on the screens. Nanami’s hopeless failure, her despair-ridden death. It makes him shiver, even now.

The school grounds have collapsed into chaos, but have not yet been abandoned. It’s beyond him what Enoshima’s plans are. The reserve course has yet to cease their rioting, and bloodshed has already begun. 

It’s amazing how quickly the world can turn on a dime, flip itself on its head and capitulate to meaningless, violent despair for nothing more than the sake of despair.

There’s no real objective on Komaeda’s mind as he prowls around the campus, the sun setting behind smog-ridden clouds and turning the sky a bloodshot shade of red. There is, however, something, or rather, _someone_ on his mind. It’s a selfish thought that he has, a wish nestled in the deepest crook of his chest, that by wandering around like this, he just might run into _Him_.

It’s as if his mind has been consumed by nothing more than the vision he’d seen, as if the world melted around the two of them, saturated in sickening, bright pastels. A beautiful pair of red, staring down at him as if he were the most insignificant thing in the world, through long, ebony black strands that could very well curl around his being and suffocate him. He’d wish for nothing more than that, to let _Him_ have a second chance at ending his life once and for all.

But he couldn’t help but feel that the world had spared his life for a reason, for _a purpose_ , one only he could fill. Endless, mind-numbing devotion to the incarnation of hope who had tried to take his life from him in the first place; he had been allowed to simply live just to worship the man he saw fit to be a god.

Kamukura Izuru.

It had been easy to find out his name. Soon after he’d encountered him, he _had_ to know who he was. The man who had outplayed his luck. So he’d done his research, and found merely a name, and the title given, “Ultimate Hope”.

“He mustn’t be far, right?” Komaeda hums to himself, wandering down the empty, disheveled and tainted halls of the main course building, shoes clicking against wooden floorboards. “The riots have only begun. He wouldn’t leave before the show reaches its climax, would he?”

He stops near the large, shattered glass windows, staring down at the commotion and chaos enveloping the courtyard. 

He considers himself lucky he’s alive, considering what’s going on down there.

“How wondrous,” Komaeda cackles, and feels static crawl up his skin, the tips of his fingers going numb as a beautiful gloom roots itself in his chest. “This despair...it’s unprecedented. Only someone like _her_ could truly cause something this terrible. The hope that will follow...ah, I’m so excited just _imagining_ it,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around himself, fingers running over the expanse of his upper arm, reaching his shoulder and digging in there through sturdy fabric.

He’s so caught up in himself, his delusions of greater powers, and the hand he wishes to have in it all—that his surroundings escape him.

The sudden resounding _click_ is deafening.

Then, there’s a distinct prod of a gun barrel against the back of his head.

“You're still here.”

The voice’s intonation is so smooth, low, that it could sound robotic, if he weren’t so keenly aware of who it belonged to and the beating heart within that man’s chest. As if smoke that enshrouds him, he feels his senses go dizzy with the white static, like the taste of menthol on his tongue, the air around him cool with a buzzing feeling of _hope_ , beautiful _hope._

An unsettling laugh breaks out of Komaeda’s throat at the feeling, engulfing the dead silence between them, quiet and crawling out of him as it raises in pitch.

He turns, faces the gun that’s aimed properly between his eyes, and gives Kamukura a wicked grin.

“Kamukura-sama…” he drones his name out, his voice growing filthy, but soft in his mouth, dripping off his tongue like honey. “I was hoping I’d see you again. Fate would have it that I meet you, and luck would have it that I be alive for this moment precisely.”

The barrel presses against his forehead, cold and unforgiving against his sickly skin.

“You think I won't pull the trigger," he states, and his voice rises at the end slightly. Though despite the intonation, it's not a question, not even slightly. Kamukura is never uncertain about anything. It sounds more like false amusement, wrapped up in utter boredom.

Komaeda licks his lips, and feels as if the other’s presence drowns him, makes him bolder than he ought to be.

“Would you not have already done so, Kamukura-sama? Why let me speak, annoying and useless, when you could’ve ended my worthless existence with this before I could even get a word out?” Komaeda whispers, a filthy intonation in his voice like a purr as he raises his hand, setting delicate fingertips on the cold steel of the barrel merely centimeters from his face.

“...It would be boring to kill you so easily,” Kamukura _sounds_ bored, staring at him down his nose, despite the inch of height Komaeda has on him, the stare is effective. Enough to make Komaeda’s knees feel weak. “Your luck has saved you once. Yet you honestly think it will do so again.”

Gently, Komaeda puts pressure against the gun’s tip, pushing it down. He tilts his head up, feels it brush against his dry lips. He’s beginning to understand properly how Kamukura works, the clockwork in his mind intricate and repetitive, unwrapping and unraveling everything in a millisecond’s time. He’s bored. Utterly unimpressed by everything around him.

Komaeda finds that _extremely interesting_ , and almost a challenge.

“I believe I was born for the sake of meeting you, and thus, had my pathetic life salvaged for the honor of _serving_ you, Kamukura-sama,” he says, his lips curling around the gun as he forms the words, so close to being in his mouth. What vestiges of self-control Komaeda has are minute, and close to crumbling apart to dust that slips through Kamukura’s fingers. “What use is there to kill me, now, if not your own pleasure? We are fighting the same battle, aren’t we? Perhaps our ends are different, but we both work in the name of spreading despair, do we not?”

“I have no use for the ends. I simply wish to see what is less predictable, _boring_. You would think I could not have predicted you’d survive a gunshot to the heart with a mere student handbook in your pocket, but I knew of your luck, Komaeda Nagito,” Kamukura's voice is dull and even, keeping the gun where it is as he regards him with a lingering glance up and down. Komaeda feels thoroughly unwrapped, like he’s a disheveled gift being torn apart, treated with no care, just to see what lies beneath. 

“But I wonder if it would be less predictable if you had died. I don’t care. I do not wish to control your fate,” he says with finality, as he moves to withdraw his gun. Komaeda chases it almost instantly, fitting his lips around the barrel with a wanton moan.

Kamukura’s brows furrow in what must be disgust.

“Kamukura-sama,” he murmurs, taking on a pleading tone as he curls his fingers around the gun, keeping it in place. His tongue pokes out of his lips, tasting the bitter metal. "...Allow me to be of use to you, _please_."

Kamukura has gone silent, but he cannot tear his eyes away from Komaeda, who's taken to practically blowing his gun. Not even slightly unnerved, Komaeda's drool is dribbling down his chin, and glistens against the gun's barrel, as he attempts to take it deeper in his mouth. There's an ugly noise in his throat as he gags on it, but even that doesn't make him relent.

"Disgusting."

The sound of Kamukura's voice makes him moan, the disdain in his tone, and the expression Komaeda is observing with lidded eyes.

Once again, Kamukura attempts to pull the gun away, and just as before, Komaeda chases it, grasping at the other's suit jacket and wrinkling it beneath his finger tips. 

"Stop it," Kamukura orders him.

Unfortunately, he has to obey. But even as he slides the gun out of his mouth, his tongue is protruding, and a thin line of spit is drawn between them. He keeps eye contact as he licks his lips.

"Maybe you'd like something better from me, Kamukura-sama? I'd truly give you anything."

Kamukura is silent, his gaze piercing through Komaeda like a particularly sharp blade in his heart. The pain, in any form, miniscule or great, is entirely welcome.

"Pathetic."

The word sets his heart ablaze, and he collapses into a fit of desperate cackles, practically throwing himself at Kamukura. His fingers sink into the fabric of his shirt, and he leans his weight against him, back arched. His lips are parted in a wanton gasp, eyes shining with corrupt hope and adoration.

"Kamukura-sa— _angh_ ," his words are abruptly cut off in his throat, instead giving way to a grunt. His world spins in a familiar way, feeling Kamukura's hand on his hip, before his back hits the hallway wall roughly.

There's a gun pressed beneath his chin suddenly, cold metal tickling his throat, and a pair of deep, red eyes so close to his, penetrating him with their haunting gaze. Komaeda bites his lip, staving off a moan. 

"K-Kamukura-sama," he whines, looking a mess suddenly, his eyes glossed over and breathing uneven. His hips squirm under Kamukura's grip, which roughly tightens in response, making him still. His pants are beginning to feel uncomfortably tight.

"Be quiet," he mutters, something almost bitter sounding in his voice. "Your voice is irritating to listen to."

Komaeda whimpers, sounding like a particularly horny, but wounded animal, and his hands claw at his shirt, raking desperate fingers down the expanse of Kamukura's chest. His hand begins to drift particularly low, venturing over the belt loops of Kamukura's trousers. He taps against the belt buckle with his dull fingernails. 

"...Please," he whispers, filthy and quiet as it slips past his lips. His dull moss eyes are lidded, clouded with lust. 

Kamukura’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and he reclines his head as if expecting a course of action from Komaeda, who takes that permission in stride, and slips his fingers into fumbling with his belt buckle blindly. It’s not as if he can look down, with the gun beneath his chin, but he doesn’t really want to, either—it would mean looking away from the beautiful face before him.

Eventually he gets it undone, and slides the belt out, giving him access to undoing his trousers. He pauses, however, and parts his lips in a trembling exhale as he gazes at Kamukura. His tongue darts out in a swift motion, wetting his lips, but a thin line of drool escapes from the corner of his mouth. Just the mere thought that he may get what he so desperately desires is enough to make his mouth water.

The button is soon undone, and Komaeda fumbles with the zipper, shaky hands struggling. His knees are trembling beneath him, and he worries he'll soon collapse. When he's one layer from the skin beneath, Komaeda can't resist spreading his fingers over the expanse of Kamukura's boxers, palming him through the fabric, curling needy fingers around the imprint of his cock.

Kamukura doesn't even react, not even a little. It's a deep contrast to how quickly Komaeda is shattering to pieces in front of him, despite not having been touched at all. As desperate as Komaeda is for that, the pleasure in _serving_ Kamukura like this is enough to make him fall apart.

He is, and always would be, nothing more than a desperate, clingy servant.

A shaky moan falls from his lips as he feels him up, his legs wobbling. Kamukura seems to take note of this, and withdraws the gun from beneath his chin. 

"What do you want?"

"To _please you_ , to serve you with my body, my _life_ ," Komaeda pleads, sounding halfway hysterical. He leans his weight on the wall, uniform scrunching up his back as he drags down it, about to fall to his knees from sheer weakness.

There's a push to his shoulder that brings him to the ground before his legs can give out on their own.

"Do so, then," Kamukura says, aims his pistol at the top of Komaeda's head. "If you bore me, however, I'm stopping you."

Komaeda wonders if he's died and gone to heaven. He cannot truly be _this_ lucky…

Staring at the bulge before him, warm and growing beneath his palm, he slips lithe fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and begins to tug them down.

When his half-hard cock is revealed, an audible noise forms in the back of Komaeda's throat. It's almost a needy whine, making him swallow thickly, his mouth suddenly salivating beyond what's really necessary.

He wraps his fingers around it, stroking it slowly, purposefully—watches with awe how the skin smooths back with his hand. He can't tease for long, though, and it's not as if he even has it in him to want to. He's so eager to have Kamukura in his mouth, diving forward and pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the shaft.

No reaction from above him, still. Komaeda glances up at him, feeling hearts dance in the warm pink haze clouding his eyes. His drool has begun to make a mess of Kamukura, who's staring down at him intently, watching every little move he makes.

Komaeda licks up and down his length, leaving a slick, wet mess everywhere his mouth goes. He's usually not so sloppy with this, having done this a few times before—quick things, little pleasures hidden away behind the closed doors of bathroom stalls or closets—but something about Kamukura makes him lose all composure. There's no hope for him, down on his knees in the ruins of Hope's Peak.

Finally, he draws back, and fits his mouth around the head. Immediately, he shivers with a moan, shutting his eyes as the flush in his cheeks darkens, and he sinks his cock further into his mouth.

"M _mm_ ," is the only noise he can make as he struggles to fit Kamukura inside, coming to realize just how big he is. He wants to feel it down his throat, wonders if Kamukura will be so generous as to fuck it for him, despite how little he would deserve it.

Komaeda starts bobbing his head, easing his cock further and further down his throat with each movement. He gags slightly as it gets deeper, but refuses to relent, steadying his breath through his nose. Soon, he can feel the tip of his nose prod the wiry curls at the base of his length, and his throat spasms as he chokes on it. Stubborn, he tries to keep it there, but ends up retracting quickly with a gasp.

" _Ah…_ " he pants, an absurd amount of drool dirtying his lips and chin, and a thin line of spit drawn between his mouth and Kamukura's cock. "Just as expected, your cock is so…"

"I don't recall saying you could stop, or speak," Kamukura cuts him off with swift, cruel words, that make Komaeda melt.

"I'm sorry, _sir_ ," Komaeda breathes, his tone coming out with a high-pitched lilt that suggests the slightest amount of tease. "Or should I say master…? I'm not sure what you'd prefer, Kamukura-sama."

Suddenly, there's a tight, gripping hand in Komaeda's unruly, cream curls, giving a rough yank. "I'd prefer you be quiet," he says sharply. Wordlessly, he tugs at his hair, drawing him closer to his crotch.

Komaeda parts his lips, tongue showing as he eagerly shoves his cock back in his mouth, muffled noises of pleasure and discomfort bubbling up his throat. He wouldn't have it any other way, believing this is where he belongs, where he hardly deserves to be. 

Pale eyelashes flutter as he feels Kamukura's hand trail down the side of his head, his fingers carding through a few white tangles, before settling in the curly wisps of hair just above and behind his ears. The most sensitive part of his scalp, even the slightest bit of pressure there brings pain. Kamukura buries his hand there, clutching at it, and pulls hard enough to sting and bring tears to Komaeda's eyes, but gentle enough to prevent tugging any strands out. Komaeda moans at the feeling, nuzzling against his hand, despite the cock stuffed halfway down his throat.

The grip tightens, and Komaeda feels a dull burn where the hair is straining his skin, making him go obediently still. He whimpers quietly, though it’s not out of discomfort—the feeling makes his thighs tremble where he kneels before Kamukura.

Then, Kamukura rolls his hips, thrusting himself deeper in a sudden, experimental movement—Komaeda gags involuntarily, feeling it brush the back of his throat, but as soon as he steadies himself, adjusts to the new feeling, he moans around Kamukura's cock.

Seemingly satisfied, not that there's any indication of such on his face, Kamukura repeats the action, and takes to steady, but rough thrusts, abusing Komaeda's throat. Komaeda is quickly made into a mess, feeling his own cock twitch and strain against his trousers. He loves being treated like this, being _used_ by none other than the one who trumped his luck himself.

His eyes prickle with tears as Kamukura gets more violent, merciless, pinning Komaeda in place by his hair. He doesn't mind it one bit. Drool soaks his lips and chin, dirtying himself with his own spit, while obscene, awful noises form in his mouth with every thrust. He tries to peek up at Kamukura, but can't manage to see him from this position. So he claws at his thighs, trying to keep himself steady.

Eventually, it becomes too much, even if he'd prefer it never ended, his body reacts to the inability to breath, by making him lurch back. It doesn't work, and he comes to realize he's been pinned against the wall. He's making awful choking noises around his cock, and his vision starts to blur. He wonders if he'll die like this, at the hands of a deity. It'd be a pathetic death, but ultimately deserving—

Kamukura suddenly releases him, and withdraws.

"That got boring."

Komaeda coughs and splutters, his throat raw and voice hoarse as he collapses forward, on his hands and knees. He wheezes, heaves the air into his lungs in painful, sharp inhales. He curls his fingers around his own throat, as if trying to soothe a pain he can't reach.

"Y-You could have easily killed me there, you know, Kamukura-sama. Why the sudden change of heart? Have you deemed me worth living? I'd consider you incapable of making such a mistake," Komaeda manages out, his voice weak, sounding ill, almost, with how rough and scratchy it's coming out.

Kamukura glares down at him. Komaeda feels sheepish for a fraction of a moment, but that's overpowered quickly by the arousal Kamukura's expression gives him. He audibly moans, which collapses into laughter.

"Maybe you prefer punishing me like this, Kamukura? You'd enjoy using me to your benefit? I'm so lowly, I don't even deserve death...I'd be more suited to a life of servitude. Wouldn't you agree?"

Slowly, as he speaks, he attempts to get up on his feet despite the way his legs tremble.

Kamukura just stares, unwavering, but the distance between them is miniscule. In one hand, he still grips his pistol, his trigger finger hovering. He raises it once more, pressing it against Komaeda's cheek. The metal is still damp with drying spit, and cold against his skin. 

"You act as if you would do anything only in the name of hope, as if you are selfless," he draws a pause out, narrowing his eyes. “But you continue to engage in contradictions and self-satisfying purposes.”

A giggle rests in the back of Komaeda's throat, squeaky and scratchy, sounding a bit crazed. 

"Why wouldn't I, Kamukura-sama? You're perfect, beautiful...an incarnation of hope. Your luck outplays mine. You're everything I desire," Komaeda rambles, breathing uneven and wavering. He nuzzles his cheek against the gun's barrel, resting his hand on Kamukura's forearm, keeping it in place despite the threat it holds. "I don’t think I’m being contradictory. To serve hope is my life's purpose, and you _are hope_. I would do anything for you...anything at all. Including this."

A smile twists on his lips, looking halfway deranged—his eyes swirl with a sinful desire, a crude mixture of hope and despair. The expression is further tainted by the drool on his chin, and the reddened, puffy and abused sight of his lips. His silver hair is more of a mess than it began, and his fingers drag downward, brushing against his chest.

"So won't you let me, Kamukura-sama? You could use me all you want."

"This seems less about me," Kamukura begins, dragging the cold steel down his cheek and toward his lips, "and more about your own selfish desires."

Komaeda simply responds by trailing his fingers down Kamukura's abdomen, until he can curl them around his length, giving a hesitant stroke.

"Kamukura-sama, my pleasure is merely secondary to yours. I don't even need to get off, so long as you're pleased," he hums, a quiet chuckle in his words, "that alone is enough to make me happy…!"

There's a beat of silence, and it feels like a beat too long for Komaeda, before his wrist is suddenly wrenched away, forcing his hand off Kamukura's cock. In an instant, it's pinned to the wall and Komaeda's back is shoved against it, held still by another hand on his throat. His back arches, a wanton moan cutting off when the fingers curl around his neck and tighten. Distantly, he can hear the loud clink of the gun being tossed aside and hitting the ground, scraping against it, disposed of in that millisecond that had all happened.

Kamukura's eyes stare into his intensely, sharp and crimson, and the expression he holds is nearly unreadable. It could be anything from hatred and disgust, like he's currently deliberating what's the quickest way to end his life without causing a needless mess, to rip him apart and leave him rotting there, a forgotten sacrifice—or it could be an inkling of _interest_ , for once, a new, exciting emotion crawling through the crevices of his perfect mind to take root and make him _feel_ something.

Whatever it is, it's certainly not boredom; it's not that same uninterested, stagnant gaze he'd held since the moment he'd met him. It’s intense, as if they could start glowing in the dark hall. And that makes Komaeda wanna sing his praises and thanks to whatever greater power of luck looms over him.

Not that he can say much, anyways, when Kamukura dives forward, his lips clashing against Komaeda's roughly, teeth clicking and lips smoothing together like the inner workings of a clock, all while his eyes remain wide open, narrowly staring at him. It feels methodic, but likewise foreign for Kamukura—as if he's never done this, but has the step-by-step memorized in his mind. Unsure, almost, like he's simultaneously wondering why he's even doing this at all. 

It's an odd thought to Komaeda, that someone as radiant and beautiful as this is inexperienced, _untainted_ , and is choosing to sully his hands by placing them on a wretch such as himself, to let the first person he exposes and opens himself up to be the human incarnate of worthless filth. 

But he'd chosen such a horrible fate the moment he'd let Komaeda wrap his disgusting lips around his cock.

When Kamukura retracts, Komaeda's breath comes out shallow and heated through parted, wet lips. His cheeks are tinted pink as pale eyelashes flutter open, gazing at him like he's the closest thing to heaven he's ever seen, and euphoria has rooted itself in his chest. Komaeda bucks his hips, trying to reach Kamukura's with his own, but there's just enough space between their lower halves that he ends up rutting the air uselessly with a whine. 

"Kamukura-sama," he breathes. "Please. I _need…_ "

The palm on his throat presses down in response, cutting off his airflow with a hitched gasp in his windpipe. He grips at Kamukura's wrist, though it's more of a natural reaction than it is a plea to stop—in fact, he'd want to keep it there more than anything. His feeble strength is no more impactful than a speck in the wind when compared to Kamukura, however, so that fate remains out of his hands. The pressure on his neck lets up, only for it to be replaced down south, when Kamukura—

" _Ah_." Relief coats his tone, high-pitched and wavering as he gasps into the warm air, feeling Kamukura's hand mercilessly press his palm down on the tent forming in his trousers. It's almost instantly that he caves to the touch, rubbing against him like it's the most wonderful thing he's ever felt, and tossing his head back against the wall with a soft moan on his lips. Kamukura watches him like he’s exploring and anticipating his reactions, picking him apart and dissecting him, and not as if he’s about to give him something remotely close to a handjob.

The friction between the layers of fabric is nearly enough for him, but not quite—he yearns, desperately desires to feel skin on skin, having his wants answered mercifully. Not that he can articulate that, given he's crumbling apart, a mess of wanton, filthy noises as his knees buckle and quiver. The mere fact that Kamukura has given him an ounce of pleasure, taken pity on him and his fragile heart, is enough that he may as well have aimed his gun at it once more. Never has he felt so blessed by fortune, as he does in this moment.

“Kamukura-sama,” he breathes out, voice unsteady and quivering, unable to do much but say his name over and over like a prayer, “please. Use me. I need it, more than anything, I need _you_ , even if I don’t deserve your merciful touch,” he rambles, the words spilling out and piling atop each other.

As if answering those prayers, Kamukura unsnaps the button on his tawny trousers, tugging the zipper down and slipping beneath the garment. He rubs at him more directly through his boxers for a moment, before he tugs those down, as well, slipping them down skinny, soft thighs. There’s no urgency in his movements, it’s all very unsure but methodical; Komaeda has to briefly wonder how it’s possible to be exploring something for the first time with the confidence of expertise. 

Their faces remain close, and Komaeda attempts to not hit his head against Kamukura’s by accident when he moves to step out of the garments, the cool air hitting his lower half. He’d already leaked precum, and that stickiness becomes painfully evident now that he's bare, smeared against the head of his dick that juts against his belly. They’re both bare from the bottom down, and Komaeda is starting to feel unbearably hot in his three layers up top, so he tugs at the jacket to dispose of off to the side. 

With hunger, he eyes Kamukura’s own black suit jacket and imagines stripping the man before him bare. The outfit he wears is a finely tailored suit, but Komaeda has the fleeting thought of how it’s identical to the reserve course uniforms. That’s impossible, however, since Komaeda can feel the utter hope and talent radiating off the man before him; he could never be ordinary, nor anything akin to worthless. He splays his open palms against Kamukura’s chest to feel him through the fabric of his shirt, and the black-haired man immediately responds by pressing his body back up against him, pinning him to the wall once more.

An unsettling giggle forms in his throat like a titter, creeping out of his mouth and coming out breathless, overwhelmed by the euphoria of having the _Ultimate Hope_ so close he could feel the rise and fall of his chest against his.

Komaeda thinks he can feel Kamukura’s breath quicken, just briefly, go unsteady; but for the most part, the man is entirely composed, while Komaeda feels torn to pieces from merely being touched.

His fingers flex and curl, cupping the man’s strong chest in his hands, exploring beneath the jacket and wishing he could pop the buttons and feel the skin beneath. It feels impudent enough already to be touching him out of line like this, but he’s greedy, a sinful being who’s never known how to quite stay in his place. 

He can feel Kamukura’s cock rub against his briefly as they press up close, and in response, Komaeda kicks a leg up and hooks it around the man’s hip. Kamukura acknowledges this course of action by grabbing his leg to steady him, hoisting him up by slipping his adjacent hand underneath his backside. Komeada slumps against the wall, making his shirt and sweater vest ride up his back, and winds his arms around Kamukura’s shoulders to keep himself steady like this.

“Kamukura-sama,” he breathes, a whisper close to the man’s lips. He laughs again, breathless, and tilts his head back against the concrete wall. “My body may be pathetic, as is the rest of me, but if it could be used for your pleasure, I would be delighted. All I wish is to serve you. To give you all of me, unconditionally. As your _servant_.”

The devotion is true; he would give himself over to Kamukura in a heartbeat. Of course, now he serves Enoshima as well, but she’s hardly on his mind at the moment. He feels stretched thin by despair and hope, and has no problems with being ripped apart like he is. There’s no response, other than the continued closeness of their bodies, so Komaeda takes that as a greenlight.

With both legs wrapped around Kamukura, he finds himself balanced enough to withdraw one of his hands from where it’s gripping his shoulder, and instead tap his fingers along his own lips. Maintaining eye contact in the lowlight, he slips his fingers between his lips, wetting them and sucking on them, utterly undignified; Kamukura’s gaze fixes on the filthy display, and he pushes Komaeda’s thighs upward, keeping his balance perfectly. There’s pressure between them, and suddenly Komaeda can feel friction on his cock as Kamukura rocks his hips forward, pressing them together.

“Ah-” Komaeda’s voices hitches in his throat softly, and he scrapes his teeth against his knuckle, trying to ground himself lest he make a fool of himself with his obscenity, but Kamukura moves again, more roughly this time, and his face screws up in pleasure, “aha… Kamukura-sama…”

Kamukura is eerily quiet, not even making a verbal reaction to the obvious pleasure he must be feeling, and his face remains stagnantly blank other than a flush rising to his cheeks that even he, with all his control on his emotions, can’t help. He bucks his hips harder, his cock, much larger in comparison, rutting against him unevenly.

“That, mm…feels good, aha, so good-” Komaeda feels too out of his mind to properly whisper his praises, so he withdraws his slick, spit-covered fingers and instead drags his tongue up the palm. With his hand now sufficiently wet, it crawls down between them and wraps around the two of their cocks, lining them up properly while Kamukura bucks into him. Of course, it’s not as if what he was doing was messy in this first place, but this makes things easier for everyone.

“It makes sense that your talent is merely luck,” Kamukura mutters, and there’s just a slight air of breathlessness in his voice. “Someone as undignified and whorish you is hardly what my masters spoke of when they venerated Ultimates.”

The moan Komaeda lets out is embarrassingly loud, wild hair splaying against the wall when he throws his head back, all the while his pale, lithe hand steadily works up and down their cocks, bony fingers curled around both of them what he can manage. The noise creeps into a breathless, giddy laugh.

“I’m nothing,” Komaeda breathes, “nothing, less than trash, yet you’re so kind to me that you’re fucking me like this, Kamukura-sama. At least you have the sense to treat me roughl _y—_ nn,” Kamukura rolls his hips harshly, yet slowly, and pushes against his thighs so that Komaeda is practically being bent in half into the wall. 

“I don’t d-deserve this, I’m _worthless_ , but I’m s-so happy... right nnow… everything about you is wonderful, perfect, you’re so filled with hope, and I wish—” Komaeda has to gulp air into his lungs as his hand quickens, as does Kamukura’s steady rhythm in which he’s rubbing up against him, because suddenly he’s feeling breathless, “—wish you would fill me with your hope, too.”

Kamukura merely grunts, which is the closest he’s gotten to verbally reacting to the pleasure he’s being given.

“You serve _her_ ,” Kamukura mutters, gritting his teeth as he bows his head forward, long tresses of hair catching on his shoulders, “yet you still speak of hope. Yet here you are, letting who you perceive as an Ultimate Hope use you.”

“H-Hope... is everything to me, and s-someone like you,” he sighs shakily, face flushed and heat crawling up every inch of his skin, pooling in his abdomen which grows _tight_. “You’ve given me a h-hope I’ve never felt, Kamukura-sama... I would... do anything for you, a-anything...”

In response, Kamukura cups his lips over Komaeda’s pulse and scrapes his teeth against the skin, feeling it jump beneath his mouth; all of his movements quickening with desperationto meet an end yet never growing imprecise, never sloppy. He sucks on the skin, pinching it between his teeth, and Komaeda cries out quietly, a short, high-pitched noise.

“Kamu-nnmm,” his name comes out in a babble, because Komaeda’s so beyond it. He’s so _close_. “Kamukura-sama, please, I—I want to cum, please, can I-? Please cum on me, Kamukura-sama, please... I’m filthy, trash, I deserve nothing more than to be made a mess of, please...”

Slowly, Kamukura withdraws from his neck after leaving a sufficient mark, one that he has figured will last a few days given how rough he was with it, and looks Komaeda in the eyes once more. He presses down.

“Now.”

Scrabbling for something to anchor him, Komaeda fists his free hand in Kamukura’s hair tightly, too beyond it to consider how above his place he’s stepping with such an action, and bangs his head back against the wall with shrill, keening moan as he slams right into his end. Hot, white ropes of cum paint his stomach, and soon after he’s made a pathetic mess of himself, Kamukura follows. Between the two of them, some has gotten on his sweater, surely going to be an issue to deal with when he has to clean it. But that’s beyond being a concern to him right now.

His mind is swimming in pleasure, afterglow clouding his head with haze. Through slits he views Kamukura, who is entirely composed despite having just hit orgasm and cum all over someone, other than a bit of breathlessness; the dark-haired man slowly eases his grip, and leads Komaeda down to the floor, having already realized that he will be in no state to stand up, currently, nonetheless walk. Kamukura withdraws and straightens his posture, efficiently tucking himself back in and buttoning his trousers back up, before smoothing out any dishevelment in the rest of his clothing. 

He steps back, and Komaeda feels a fleeting panic rise in his pulse.

“ _Kamukura-sama_ ,” Komaeda pleads, reaching out for him. _Don’t leave me, please_. _You’re all I have._

“I have places to be.”

“Ah, but I-I, I could accompany you. We’re both on Enoshima-san’s side, aren’t we? Please...”

“I am not affiliated with her,” Kamukura states simply, brushing his words off easily. He doesn’t feel anything, despite knowing that his actions are distressing Komaeda. This doesn’t matter to him. Komaeda Nagito is nothing, and Kamukura Izuru is everything; he needs not for someone like him. He provided him momentary entertainment... and that was it. He steps outward, turning away from Komaeda. “Not anymore.”

A solitary glance is tossed over his shoulder.

“Goodbye, Komaeda Nagito.”

“Wait, no—”

Kamukura leaves him there, without another word, disappearing down the corridor. To who knows where, for what purpose.

the omen of hope after the worst disaster.

—

“Jesus, I coulda guessed you were a pathetic slut, but damn,” Enoshima snorts. “You already fucked someone? Like, people are literally murdering each other, and you fucked someone? Can I take a wild guess? Don’t even need to tell me if I’m right, ‘cuz I can see it on your dumb face if I am or not.”

Her bright blue eyes, framed by an obnoxious amount of mascara are fixed on Komaeda’s neck, and the disgusting state his clothes are in.

“‘Kay, first guess. Mechanic boy, I don’t know his name.”

“Soda Kazuichi. No,” Komaeda answers simply, trying to scrub an unsightly stain out of his sweater vest. It’s not giving him much.

“Big dude. Like, his dick looks like it’s gotta be, what, 25cm? He’s _absolutely_ hung. Too bad he’s obnoxiously stupid.”

Komaeda hates hearing her talk about his beloved classmates like this, like they’re worthless. He doesn’t even understand why she’s around him, right now. When he came crawling to her, he expected to get turned away with a slap and nothing more, but it’s clear she’s just trying to draw some form of entertainment out of him.

“Nidai Nekomaru. No,” Komaeda answers again, sounding almost robotic. He sighs, letting go of the garment.

“Why are you even trying to clean that musty old thing? Like, you’re not a fucking student here anymore, dumbass. You kinda contributed to the school’s downfall and blew up a classroom. Toss that shit, get a new outfit. Seriously.”

Enoshima kicks her legs up on the table, and bites down on her lollipop, which makes a sickening crack sound as she shatters the hard sugar to bits in her mouth.

“...Maybe you’re right,” Komaeda sighs.

“Duh. Of course I am. Anyways, next guess. Did you fuck some reserve course before they all killed each other to feel despair or whatever? I’ll give you props if you did.”

Komaeda doesn’t answer, frowning as he folds his sweater vest up and straightens his button up on himself.

“Hey. Loser. Talking to you?”

“No.”

“Ugh, you’re so fucking _boring_ ,” Enoshima groans loudly, throwing her head back and tilting her chair back so far it’s close to toppling beneath her. She pinches the lollipop stick between her fingers, now vacant of anything sweet, instead just degraded and gross from her spit, and throws it at Komaeda. He flinches, and ducks his head down, so the stick sores over his head and conveniently misses him.

“Fuck!” She growls, and straightens her chair. “Hey, hey, you know what could be fun? Like, what if I put you on a giant dartboard and started throwing shit at you. Do you think your luck will save you forever? I could throw knives at you, like that shit they do in movies.”

“And what will you gain from doing that? I’m fairly confident my luck won’t let me get hurt.”

“Don’t you want to die or whatever? It’s gotta _despair-inducing_ to be so suicidal and emo or whatever, but you can’t even die. Though you look half-dead anyways. Would hate to be the poor sap that sees you naked, you probably look like a degraded skeleton,” she snorts, and digs her annoying glittery pocket knife out, flinging it at him. It soars right past his ear, into the wall. “Damnit.” She grabs a magazine, chucks that. Misses. “Fuck!”

“Enoshima-san, I suggest you stop-”

She picks up a few more items and tosses them angrily. Over and over. They all miss. She groans in frustration, clearly annoyed by how she can’t manage to land _anything_ , and digs her manicured nails into her hair.

Then, she starts laughing.

“God, you’re fucking awful! Just trying to hit you makes me feel-” she laughs a little harder, “fucking _hopeless_. No wonder you’ve got no friends, they can’t even beat the shit out of you, I bet.”

Enoshima reaches over and grabs him by the hair, yanking him down to her level; he winces, feeling her sharp acrylics prod his scalp. She grins at him, widely, swirly blue eyes staring at him directly.

“You’re probably the most useless in this bunch. All of you are pathetic, but omigawd, you’re literally the worst,” she snickers, and steps her heeled boot down _hard_ on his toes. He winces. “Hey, look at that. I _can_ beat you up. Maybe you’d be good for _that_ , even if you can’t do shit otherwise.”

The adjacent, dainty hand moves to cup his face, squishing his cheeks unpleasantly and digging sharp nails into his skin. She yanks at his hair, and he makes a pained noise.

“Wanna tell me who you fucked, yet? Maybe I’ll let you go if I do, cuz then I can make fun of you for being a whore.”

Something sears through him, makes his chest feel tight, and he remembers how Kamukura had _protected her_ , when Komaeda had attempted to take her life, and has now abandoned her side. And how she fawned over him, as he was losing consciousness, how she so clearly adored him and he was unaffected.

But he’d given Komaeda, useless, worthless Komaeda, the time of day.

“Kamukura Izuru,” he suddenly spits out, before he can really think about it. Her amused, gleeful expression at his expense falls in an instant, instead darkening, glaring.

“Excuse me?” 

“I _fucked_ -” his breath hitches when he feels her grip tighten, “ _Kamukura Izuru_.”

In an instant, he loses balance as Enoshima pulls his head forward and brings her knee up to sock him directly in the gut, before she shoves him down to the floor.

“What the _fuck_? Are you kidding me? Someone as ugly, and nasty, and _pathetic_ as you? No you fucking didn’t. Are you just trying to make me mad, huh?”

Komaeda clutches his abdomen, but she kicks his hand away and instead digs her heel into his gut, making him groan and try to push her leg away weakly. “I-I have no reason to lie to you, Enoshima-san.”

“Cut that shit out, you fucking loser. I’m not gonna think highly of you just ‘cuz you...” she trails off, and carefully inspects him for a moment, then flicks her eyes over to the close he’d folded up on the table. Withdrawing her foot, she steps over and picks up the brown suit jacket, running her hands over it (her nails scrape against the fabric, which produces the worst sound Komaeda has ever heard, but he doesn’t cover his ears) before dropping it. Something is pinched between her fingers.

A long, black strand of hair, curled up and tangled. It was caught in the hole in his suit jacket, where the bullet had pierced his clothing.

“Oh my god.”

Komaeda doesn’t know if he should gloat, per se, so he just stares at her, and watches her go through what must be the seven stages of grief as she stares at it.

“Oh my fucking _god_ ,” she finally shrieks, and fists her hand up with the strand of hair. Then, in a swift motion, she swings a kick at him and knocks him square in the jaw with the toe of her boot, making him cry out. 

“After he denied _me_ ,” a giggle pulses through her, suddenly, “so _many times_ , he fucked _you_? I mean, God, you’d think the Ultimate Fuckin’ Everything would have some fucking standards, but apparently his standards are ‘less than trash’! God, that’s just...!”

She’s drooling. Komaeda peers up at her, gripping his jaw in pain, in wonder as she goes through at least seven different emotions before landing on...

“ _Despairing!_ ”

“That’s what you like, isn’t it?” Komaeda mutters, the words not coming out easy as his jaw throbs. “Happy to be of assistance, then.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’ll ruin my moment!” she growls, and steps away from him, hugging herself as her hopes of apparently ever getting laid by Kamukura Izuru have been thoroughly crushed. Komaeda isn’t sure it’s so satisfying, anymore.

She giggles a bunch to herself, running her hands up and down her arms, before suddenly stopping and blurting out. “Fuck, you’re distracting me from my super evil plan!” she throws her hands up, and glares at him. “Jesus Christ, you wanted to serve me or whatever the fuck, but you’re this useless? You’re like, the definition of the ‘worst servant ever’.”

“I’m honored you’ve deigned to spend any time with filth like me, Enoshima-san, but perhaps filth do live among filth.”

“That was like, the worst comeback ever. God. Okay. I’m leaving. Bye-bye.”

She waves her hands and stomps out, heels clicking. Komaeda waits for his head to stop reeling, before he returns to gathering his clothes and pondering where to go from here.

...Servant, that’s what he’d like to be. If luck is kind to him, maybe he’ll find Kamukura again, so he can serve who he’s truly meant to.

He ought to dress like it, too.


End file.
